


You Want Matching Crazy? How's This for Irony

by PennamePersona



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: (all just mentioned but shown in fic as well as I can), (not directly after but Peter's tired and he's gone through a lot so he bites the bullet), Affection and Feelings and Mental Illnesses, And i wanna make it clear that I'm Not Into That, Anxious Peter Parker, Bipolar Peter Parker, Feeling a lot and dealing with it, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mentally Ill Wade Wilson but you all knew that, Non-consensual mental health treatment mentioned, Panic Attack, Post Panic Attack Confession of Love, Taking care of people you love even when you're not sure how to, adhd peter parker, btw i see Peter as about mid-late twenties and Wade early thirties in this, it's not mentioned in fic but I see way too much sketchy age-gap spideypool, mental health
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 19:18:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15346800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennamePersona/pseuds/PennamePersona
Summary: “What’s your crazy, Spider-babe?” He asks, leaning back on his hands. “Maybe we match.”orPeter deals with the aftermath of a week of psychiatric evaluations that he didn't ask for, and Wade does his best to help with that. Includes care, understanding, and being comfortable even when you're vulnerable.





	You Want Matching Crazy? How's This for Irony

**Author's Note:**

> So this is kind of a long one-shot, for me! I'm pretty happy with it, though, feels good, feels organic. I tried to keep characterization even while dealing with aspects of mental illness that can throw a person off, so it might be a bit off, but I did my best!
> 
> There is a panic attack in fic, as well as several references to mental health treatment that was not asked for, and discussion of how a lack of consent in treatment is shitty as hell. It shouldn't be terribly explicit, but if you think it might be beyond your comfort level, do what's best for you!

Peter’s sitting as close to the top of Avenger’s Tower that he can get, mask clutched in his hand. He looks out, over the view of the city he’s lived in all his life, and feels the urge to scream, or cry, or laugh hysterically, rise to just behind his teeth. He’s about to let whatever it is out, have a good old-fashioned breakdown, which, frankly speaking, Peter feels very deserving of, when another body smacks itself down next to him.

 

“And here I thought only cool spies brooded up here,” A familiar voice teases, unexpected but not unwelcome. “Well, cool spies and eccentric billionaires.  _ Well _ , cool spies and eccentric billionaires and soldiers from World War Two who were totally supposed to be dead by now but aren’t due to weird genetic modifications and really cold places - weird that that happened twice, by the way, I’m just saying.  _ Well _ ,”

 

“Wade,” Peter says, a tired half-chuckle escaping with the name. “Your point has been made.”

 

“Gonna tell me why you’re up here, then?” Wade asks. “Because, Spidey, this ain’t your usual hang. You tend to spend a fair chunk of your time  _ away _ from this place, if I recall correctly, unless you’re being hired by an eccentric billionaire to do science better than him on a freelance basis, or the world is ending and people in weird suits have to stop it, or whatever. Or aliens.”

 

“Sometimes robots,” Peter says, and then they both finish with: “Sometimes robot aliens.”

 

“Stark sucks.” Peter says. “And S.H.I.E.L.D. And Dr. Banner. And that psychiatrist they took me to. And me, for letting out my identity in the first place, so they could look up all sorts of really invasive shit about me, and force me into a fucking psychiatrist appointment that ended up being, like,  _ a week long _ , and jesus, Wade, fuck this!”

 

He ends on a shout loud and furiously pained enough that it takes Wade a full three seconds to reply.

 

“What’s your crazy, Spider-babe?” He asks, leaning back on his hands. “Maybe we match.”

 

“Bipolar type two, ADHD, and anxiety.” Peter says, quieter, more tired. “Generalized and social. They tried to nail me with OCD, too, but I shut that one down. They might have an ethically questionable level of information on my life, but I’m the one in my head. I think I know a bit more about my behavioral patterns than them.”

 

“Oh, fun!” Wade says, delightedly. “I’ve been pinned with bipolar before, type one according to some books I read. Matcherz, Spidey, we should get color coordinated straitjackets.” 

 

“What else?” Peter asks, finally turning fully towards Wade. 

 

“Schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder, major depressive disorder, borderline personality disorder, OCD one time - matcherz again - aaaaaand probably some more that I forgot,” Wade says, counting off on his fingers.

 

“Damn,” Peter says. “And the boxes? What’ve they got?”

 

Wade laughs, loud and delighted.

 

“They’ve got a strong case of B-N-P-O-S,” Wade says, dropping into a comically hissed whisper. “That stands for bitchy, nagging pieces of shit, but don’t tell them I said that.”

 

Peter laughs, this time, quieter and still tired, but enough closer to his usual laugh that Wade preens with satisfaction.

 

“So they shrunk your head right on down?” Wade asks. “How rude of them not to invite me. I would’ve loved to see that, no one does any good head shrinkin’ anymore, hard to find people really into it, or at least I never have, and I been all over, Spidey, you know this, so if anyone was gonna find proper headshrinkers, it’d be me! Problem again though is that there’s the trouble of gettin’ people to hold their heads still if you’re gonna shrink ‘em, tough to get consent in a headshrinkers lair, and come right around to it, that’s the problem this time ‘round, too, ain’t it?”

 

“It is,” Peter agrees. “Crazy how someone who supposedly studied human interaction and psychology would have such a problem recognizing that I don’t want to be around them.”

 

“Crazy, crazy, you said it, Spidey-babe, crazy to not see the nutters right in front of you bein’ people in their own right, can’t bring in a good profit if all your cases, whoops! I mean  _ patients _ keep scrambling off your La-Z-Boy couch to find the closest approximation of consensual interaction they can grab in a city like this!” Wade says, twisting himself as he rambles, so that his head is leaning against the edge of the roof, the rest of his body laying firmly on solid ground. It’s some kind of metaphor, Peter thinks, or else it’s Wade’s discomfort in sitting still being prodded by an uncomfortable conversation.

 

“You can call me Peter, y’know.” Peter says.

 

Wade pauses with his hand in the air, still gesturing even after he’s stopped talking, always moving, never still, and that’s one of the things Peter appreciates about Wade. He’s massively unpredictable, for sure, but he’s also consistent in ways like these, in his inability to ever be truly still, perfectly quiet, always something going on so obviously just beneath that suit.

 

“Can I?” Wade asks, sitting up. He sounds surprised, which confuses Peter.

 

“Of course,” Peter says. “You know my name, Wade, I did tell you on purpose.”

 

“Didn’t know that I didn’t know it before,” Wade says. “Names are different than people think, Spider-Parker, a name is a person and a person is a name and you can have more than one, and they mean different things! Wade and Deadpool, same person, different name, different people use ‘em, and I might be a headcase and a half, but I notice things, Peter-man, don’t believe I don’t.”

 

“I know you do,” Peter says, an edge of a fond smile in his voice. “You’re one of the smartest people I know.”

 

“Well now, even I know that’s an ego-strokin’ lie, baby boy, be honest with Deadpool, everyone else is.” Wade says, shaking his finger at Peter’s face, like he’s scolding a child. Peter’s smile gets softer, and he rolls his eyes.

 

“When have I ever lied to you, Wade?” Peter asks, pushing Wade’s finger away and standing up, sliding his mask back on. “Hey, race you back to my place.”

 

And then Peter’s jumping off the edge of Avenger’s Tower and swinging his way to his apartment, Wade’s shouts echoing behind him.

 

Now this, Peter thinks, this feels more like normal.

 

* * *

 

Peter gets to the apartment first, goes in through a window instead of changing in the alley like usual. He doesn’t feel up to more human interaction today, and his neighbors are a bit nosy whenever he runs into them. They mean well, really, little old Mrs. Wickem and her desperate need to coddle (she makes amazing banana bread, so Peter can’t really complain) and Mr. Teagan who was in the army so long that his hand shakes whenever he isn’t holding something firm in it, too used to the feel of a gun. There’s Lila, too, a single mom in her late thirties, and she’s always moving, rushing from work to picking up her daughter at school to going out with her daughter, every weekend, to some museum or park or zoo, and even though Peter knows she’s stressed, she’s almost always smiling. Her daughter, Sam-not-Samantha, is almost always smiling, too, and the two of them are what bring Peter lightness, some days, two people in the world who have seen the bad it has to offer, Peter knows they have (was there one night when Sam-not-Samantha’s dad - if he can even be called that - came into the building and shouted at Lila and Sam’s door, screaming in anger, in fury, in danger, and though Lila and Sam will never know it, Peter made sure that man was never coming back to this building ever again), and yet they’ve found such joy in each other. It reminds him of how Aunt May and Uncle Ben were, when he was a kid, and even though that causes a pang in his chest, it’s a good reminder to have. 

 

Tonight, he doesn’t want to see any of them, doesn’t want any questions, though they’re almost all good-natured. He’s had enough people and talking in the past week to give him a headache at the thought of more.

 

He swings through the window into his living room, already peeling off his mask and making quick work of the rest of the suit on his way into his bedroom. Wade’s right behind him, he knows, and when he hears a crash from the next room while he’s pulling on a sweatshirt, he just grins.

 

“Yo, did I actually beat you here?” Wade calls out, and Peter laughs, loudly. 

 

“No way, man, I’m just changing,” He calls back, moving back to the living room. “You’ve still got some clothes here if you wanna change, too.”

 

Wade’s already taken his mask off, looking at Peter a bit strangely for a moment before he walks past Peter into his bedroom.

 

“Got a whole drawer at your place, Spidey, that usually means a Thing, capital T mind you, so you best be careful, don’t want Deadpool gettin’ ideas in his head! Ideas, they’re dangerous, can do so much more, and hey, wait a minute, ain’t you tired?” Wade pokes his head back out of the bedroom, squinting at Peter, who shrugs.

 

“Yeah, pretty tired.” He says. “I’ve had enough forced human interaction to last me at least a month.”

 

“Then what the hell am I doin’ here?” Wade asks, walking completely out of Peter’s room. He’s changed into one of the hoodies he left and a larger pair of Peter’s sleep pants. “If you need quiet, you should kick me out now before I get comfortable.”

 

“Please, Wade, give me some credit.” Peter says, walking into the kitchen to grab a couple of beers and a takeout menu. “Whaddya think, Chinese? Thai? Oh, I think I still have the fixings for good spaghetti with, like, actual homemade sauce, if you wanna cook with me.”

 

“No Mexican?” Wade whines, leaning heavy on the counter. “And after I’ve gone a week without ya, Peter-man, that’s cruelty.”

 

“As though you weren’t drowning your sorrows in chimichangas, anyway,” Peter says, absentmindedly. “I’m thinking Chinese, tonight. We can do that place with the really good egg rolls, I know you like their moo goo gai pan.”

 

“Sorrows, yeah,” Wade says. “Whatever you want, baby boy, I won’t complain about food if I’m in your company, too long a week, I say, and I think you say, too. Different reasons, I’m sure, but Peter.”

 

Peter turns at the strange seriousness in Wade’s voice, phone halfway to his ear, number already dialed. Someone picks up at the restaurant, and Peter slowly brings the phone up to his face, watching Wade the whole time, in case this is something serious enough, real enough, that food should wait until after. Wade lets him go, though, so Peter rattles off their order and the delivery address, hanging up as soon as he can.

 

“Wade, what’s wrong?” He asks, still slow, still careful.

 

“Been askin’ you the same thing,” Wade says, his jaw tight, obviously uncomfortable, and Peter’s noticed Wade’s discomfort tonight, but he’s been pushing it aside, too relieved to finally be out of the Tower and examinations to overfocus on it.

 

Maybe that was selfish. Maybe Peter is as selfish as those doctors seemed to keep implying, and Peter’s not sure that’s what they meant, but it’s what he heard. Selfish, their eyes said, selfish and lazy and impossible to handle, no wonder people leave, no wonder they can’t handle him, so needy and pushy and awful to be around, dope him up on whatever we can get that his metabolism won’t run through too quickly to fix him, even though Peter  _ doesn’t want to be fixed, doesn’t care if he’s broken, he’s gone this long and he’s still -  _

 

“-er? Peter? Spidey, c’mon, come back to me, it’s killin’ me to keep my voice this calm, you don’t want me getting overwhelmed and screaming, do you, scare that nice lady and her kid next door, come on Spidey, keep breathing, alright, okay, there you are, there you go.” Wade’s saying, as Peter slowly comes back to himself.

 

“What?” He says, voice briefly separated from his thoughts, and then he’s reconnecting and everything’s too much for a half-second and he’s wincing at the lights, the sounds of the city, and his eyes are squeezed shut already (can’t even handle coming out of a panic attack, Parker, how weak are you, really? People rely on you, get it together) and then there are hands on the side of his head. 

 

Big hands, firm, hands that have grabbed him before, too, but always telegraphed their movement. Warm hands, hands that have pulled him out of danger more times than he can count. 

 

Wade’s hands.

 

Peter breathes.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

In.

 

Out.

 

And he opens his eyes. 

 

Wade’s looking at him, concern and more than a small amount of panic on his face, and just seeing a familiar, trustworthy face causes Peter to fully relax.

 

“Sorry.” He croaks out. “How long…?”

 

“Dunno,” Wade says, carefully pulling his hands away. “Food’s here, though. Had to leave you real quick to grab it, don’t worry, paid the man all nice, probably tipped ‘em more than expected, but I had a Spidey to get back to, and I don’t think anyone’s really complaining about that.”

 

“Thanks,” Peter says. “We should eat, then.”

 

Wade doesn’t make a sound, just watches him pull plates out of the cabinet and separate the food out. It’s nice, to have something to focus on, something small but important, but once the food is all where it needs to be and Peter’s moving it all out to the living room so they can watch something while they eat, the nerves start to come back.

 

“Can you grab the beer?” He calls back to Wade, who hasn’t moved at all. 

 

“Already ahead of you, Spidey,” Wade says, setting the bottles down on the coffee table and sitting down next to Peter. There’s a few more inches of space between them than what feels like normal, but Peter’s too wrung out to justify paranoia.

 

“You gonna share with the class?” Wade asks, grabbing an egg roll and pulling it apart. “Or is it guessing time?”

 

Peter takes a few bites of food, a swig of beer, and then sits for a minute, just holding the bottle loosely in his hands, thinking. Wade must know that he’s thinking, not avoiding the question, because he keeps quiet the whole time.

 

“They kept me there, even after I said I wasn’t interested in a psych eval.” Peter says, quieter than he intended. “Stark said he was concerned, and then Dr. Banner agreed, and I wanted to laugh at the idea that any of the Avengers could even be worried about someone else’s mental health. Just look at them, I mean, what else do I need to say? But they said they were, so they dragged me to some S.H.I.E.L.D. shrink, and I don’t have anything against psychiatrists except that they kept being wrong about me, and then they were testing medication and telling me about how wrong my head is, and I kept laughing because I already know that I’ve got problems and I never  _ asked _ for their help, and that only made them more concerned, and after a solid week of people prodding at my psyche without bothering to make sure that  _ I _ was okay with it, I booked it the hell out of there.”

 

Wade’s quiet for a few seconds after Peter finishes, and then he lets out a loud shout of “fuck!” and slams his head against the back of the couch.

 

“Dude,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows. “You’re totally gonna scare the neighbors if you keep that up.”

 

“They really kept you against your will?” Wade asks, rolling his head to look at Peter. “Because I’m sorry, baby boy, I’m doing my best to keep up the good streak, ‘specially when you’re recovering and all, but you gotta know I really wanna introduce those idiots to the business end of a katana, and by business, you know I mean sharper than any suit Tony ‘alcoholic and manic-depressed billionaire’ Stark has ever owned.”

 

“Don’t, Wade,” Peter sighs. Wade just cover his face with his hands at lets out a long groan.

 

“They hurt you!” He says. “Fools that they are, they hurt you and didn’t listen when you told ‘em so, someone’s gotta teach ‘em to listen, and I’ve got experience dealing with scum that don’t care for consent, trust me on that.”

 

“I do trust you,” Peter says. “That’s why I wanted you here, tonight. I know I haven’t been up to par, exactly, but I missed you. You...you get me, Wade, and I know you’ll give it to me straight. I know that when you tell me how you feel, you’re honest, and I need that right now. Sorry for...well, dragging you into my mess of a breakdown, I guess.”

 

“Shut up,” Wade groans, falling against Peter. “You’re too good for this shit, Peter, you gotta know that. No one ever got better against their will, and if you’re okay, fuck them. Even if you’re not, fuck them, because what help could they possibly be after all that, hell, even I’d be better help than those pieces of shit.”

 

“I know,” Peter says, quietly. He leans back against Wade, taking another long drink of beer.

 

“ _ Good _ ,” Wade says, forcefully. “I hate being the responsible one, but for you, Peter-babe, I do my best.”

 

“I know,” Peter says, again, leaning forward to put his bottle on the table, then facing Wade directly.

 

“I care,” Wade says, and though he’s being quieter than usual, less animated, Peter knows that he’s putting all the feeling he’s got into the words he’s choosing. He can see the itching beneath Wade’s skin, can tell that he’s on edge, doesn’t quite know how to handle someone falling apart, but gives it his all, anyway, because that’s what Wade Wilson fucking does.

 

“You’re my hero.” Peter says, smiling, or at least trying for one, and Wade’s eyes get huge. He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again, and Peter can see him trying for words, but he can’t seem to find any, which makes Peter laugh, because a Wade Wilson struck wordless is not a sight often seen.

 

“I care about you, too,” Peter says, leaning closer. “I trust you more than almost anyone I’ve ever known, Wade, and I know you trust me, too. And since we’re doing the capital-F-Feelings thing tonight, already, you should probably also know that I’m pretty completely in love with you.”

 

It’s probably the post-panic attack calm that’s letting Peter say all this when he normally trips over his tongue at anything close to a conscious expression of vulnerability, but this is Wade, and he’s tired, and if he’s going to show off his weak spots to anyone, it may as well be the person who’s always given back as good as he gets.

 

“What the fuck,” Wade chokes out. “This is the weirdest and most narratively consistent dream I think I’ve ever had.”

 

“Not a dream, tough guy,” Peter says, leaning even closer still. “But I’ll pinch you if you think it’ll help.”

 

“Please,” Wade says, breathy, eyes flickering from looking deeply at Peter and then down at his lips, which are only inches away from touching Wade’s.

 

Peter leans all the way in, brushes their mouths together, and bites Wade’s lip sharply.

 

“What the shit!” Wade shouts, hand automatically going to his mouth when Peter pulls back, laughing.

 

“Still think you’re dreaming?” He cackles, pressing his face into Wade’s chest, shoulders still shaking with delight at Wade’s expression.

 

“No, but jesus, Spidey, no one ever means ‘pinch my  _ lip _ I must be dreaming,’ not that I’m really complaining, but seriously, Peter, what the fuck?” Wade says, inspecting his fingers after he removes them from his lip.

 

“I’d say I’m sorry, but we both know that wouldn’t be convincing,” Peter says, looking up at Wade and grinning.

 

“It would not,” Wade agrees, his own smile starting to creep across his face. Peter can see the warmth in his eyes, the excitement, the desire that echoes in his own chest, fingers, heart, head, all of him, and leans back up for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Confession time! I have never read a Marvel comic, it's been years since I saw a Spiderman movie, and I took very little from the Deadpool movie except some characterization that, honestly, has mostly been coming from fic for me, anyway. This exists in a Marvel fanverse that I find a lot of fics settled in, so there's no way it fits into any canon that I can think of. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed it, and if you did, I'd appreciate a comment! If you didn't, I'd also love to hear from you. Constructive criticism is how writers grow!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.pennamepersona.tumblr.com)


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